Thank you to everyone who continues to read this. We're at the point of this story where I had a crisis of confidence very similar to Hathaway's, but I am notoriously poor at finishing multi-chapter fics so for good or ill I have pressed on. Right, I'll leave you to read – I have two more chapters to type up and an epilogue to post before my self imposed deadline of 5pm GMT!
Chapter Ten
Hathaway pulled his blue Vauxhall out into the Banbury Road into a steady stream of traffic. He found himself wondering where they were all going – no doubt some were going to do their Christmas shopping, he'd managed to avoid that this year thanks to the internet, a saviour for all those with slightly irregular working hours. Fortunately, he hadn't got many people to buy for anyway; Hobson was easy to please with a bottle of wine and a nice box of chocolates, the same went for Innocent, a collection of unusual CDs went a long way to pleasing the lads in the band which left Lewis as his trickiest customer.
He'd puzzled over him for hours, shopping already not one of Hathaway's many talents. He had dismissed a book on Newcastle United as too boring, a crate of beer as too predictable, and a variety of other gifts as too impractical. Lewis always seemed to be considering new hobbies though, and when he saw a sign in The Trout offering a special offer fly fishing lesson with a meal at the pub afterwards he bought it on impulse, and was now resigned to wondering whether or not is was a good idea until he'd seen whether his boss liked it.
The drive to Summertown was a short one and it wasn't long before he found himself in front of the scene of last night's murder. More from curiosity than any sense of wrong doing he decided to park there and walk to Mr Thompson's property, to see how far apart the separated couple actually lived. It was a bare five minutes with his long legged stride; clearly an amicable separation then.
Mr Thompson's house was larger than Ms Blackwall's; a garage attached to the side of the property and clearly the original family home. The curtains were open and a large twinkling Christmas tree took up a large section of the living room bay window. Hathaway smiled at the incongruous decorations – shop bought delicate crystal decorations sat smartly alongside homemade, glitter festooned creations.
Hathaway knocked firmly at the scarlet front door and was rewarded by the scampering feet of small children running through the hallway, squealing excitedly.
"Daddy! Is it Santa, Daddy?"
Hathaway couldn't help but smile as a long-suffering voice answered, clearly audible.
"No, it's not Christmas yet, and anyway where does Santa Claus come?"
"Down the chimney!" there was another flurry of giggling, amplified as the door opened.
"Oh, hello Sergeant, come in," Richard Thompson held the door open to let the tall detective past, "girls, go and play while Daddy and Mr Hathaway have a talk."
Two small, blonde girls, wearing what appeared to by fairy wings pushed their way eagerly past Hathaway and disappeared through a door towards the back of the hallway, giving James a moment to look round. It seemed as though every inch of available wall space was covered with photographs of the two girls both with and without their father.
"How old are they?" he asked politely, as he regarded the family gallery.
"Emilia is seven," Richard pointed out a photo of the older girl wearing what appeared to be some kind of ballet costume, "and Olivia is five." He selected another photo, this one of a small pumpkin.
"Sweet," Hathaway commented, in the bored tone of voice shared by young childless gentlemen, as he wished Lewis was here to do the family chat.
"Do you want to come into my office?" Richard offered, "Quieter in there, and the girls will knock if they need anything. I'm afraid I haven't long though, we are going ice skating this morning." He led the way into a study filled with yet more photographs and gestured to a seat which Hathaway folded himself into.
"How are they?" Hathaway asked, surprised by how upbeat the children were.
"Ah," their father looked a little embarrassed, "I'm afraid I've just told them their mother is all that the moment. I don't want them to associate Christmas with something as terrible as their Mother's suicide."
"Won't they want to see her?" he asked, curiously.
Richard started to look slightly uncomfortable with this line of questioning.
"They're too young to understand. I've told them she's too poorly to see anyone."
"Mr Thompson," he began, slowly, watching the gentleman before him carefully for any kind of reaction, "Did Ms Blackwall have any enemies that you know of?"
He got a definite response to that, though perhaps not the one he had expected to see when he first arrived, Richard Thompson shuffled awkwardly in his seat, in an almost guilty fashion.
"No," his answer was quick, and almost a little shrill, "she was just very stressed about the car accident understandably, why do you ask?"
"Well, Mr Thompson," Hathaway weighed the odds of mentioning the murder against not, and decided almost immediately that it might prompt a helpful reaction from the man before him, "It appears that she was murdered last night."
There was a long pause, muscles twitched in Thompson's face as though he was trying to decide how he should school his expression appropriately in response to the sergeant's declaration.
"What makes you say that?" he finally asked, looking bewildered.
Hathaway remained a little vague.
"The killer left behind some evidence." He confided in the man, watching sweat break out across his brow.
"That's terrible," there was an air of insincerity in the phrase almost undetectable except to someone who had spent a lot of time talking to liars, "I can't think of anyone who would wish to harm her." He stood up abruptly, "Now I'm sorry Mr Hathaway but as I told you before, we have an appointment to attend."
Hathaway nodded, acceptingly and stood up. He was definite that this man had not behaved at all in the way he would expect, both towards his questioning and towards his children, but he couldn't go charging into an arrest, without some firm evidence to tie Thompson to the crime. For that he needed a search warrant, and some backup.
"I'll see myself out." He didn't mention the possibility of a return as he left, he was concerned that could provoke the man into fleeing somewhere, very probably with his children in tow.
Once the front door had closed behind him he fished hurriedly in his pockets for his mobile, hitting the appropriate speed dial key without even needing to look.
"Hello, this is the voicemail messaging service for Robert Lewis..."
Hathaway sighed in frustration, this is why budget meetings in the middle of murder enquiries were a terrible idea.
"Hello sir, I wondered if you could meet me at the scene, with a warrant for Mr Thompson's house. I have a feeling we might find he owns some..."
Hathaway stopped and hung up abruptly; the cold pressure in his back from the barrel of a small handgun was unmistakeable.